hollis-partygirlFD-IN-EP Read online

  “Would you like to listen to something else?” he asks.

  I grin back.

  “You trust me with the radio?”

  “Barely,” he teases.

  Just for that, I flip right on over to the country station. His lips purse, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “How was work—” I start to ask at the exact same time that he says, “You look gorgeous—”

  I’m sure I’m blushing like a peach now.

  “Work was busy,” he says. “How about you?”

  I smile, remembering earlier today when Miko and I danced around the apartment after finding out we’d booked a new client. I suppose we’ll eventually be more ladylike about the whole thing, but we’re only a few months into owning our company, and so for now, we have a dance party every time we sign a new contract.

  “Work was great. We booked a new client today, and they have a really fun theme to work with.”

  He smiles at me indulgently.

  “And you love a theme.”

  “I love a theme,” I agree happily.

  And it’s the truth. Tropical, western, Asian fusion, Greek mythology—I want it all! I love it when a client gives us direction for an event, and then it’s up to us to make the idea come to life. I especially love when the theme is obscure or sort of tacky, because I believe wholeheartedly that anything can be produced in a chic way. A bride wants tulle or carnations or even those tissue-paper bells from the eighties? Bring it on! Miko and I can find a way to make anything look gorgeous!

  Fifteen minutes later we pull up to the restaurant’s valet just as Blake Shelton finishes singing about neon signs. Brody gives me a pointed look before hitting the mute button.

  I laugh in response.

  “Oh yes, because heaven forfend the valet should know we were in here listening to country music.”

  I make sure he sees me roll my eyes before I turn and step down with the assistance of the second valet holding my door.

  Yes, that’s the kind of restaurant we were at—not just one valet but a whole legion of them there to assist you with whatever kind of thing you might need. Something I’ve learned after living in LA for a while: if you’re curious how expensive a place might be, don’t look at their menu; count the number of eager valets waiting out front. Rich people do not like to wait for their cars.

  Brody walks around the car to meet me on the sidewalk and reaches for my hand. Even though he’s done it before, I still have to repress a silly giggle that we hold hands now—with each other—in public.

  “I’m happy to put up with your terrible taste in music,” he says as we walk to the entrance of the restaurant. “That doesn’t mean I want anyone thinking it’s mine.”

  The horrified look on his face isn’t any kind of an act.

  Poor Brody. Poor hot, sexy, wealthy Brody has everything going for him and a list of positive attributes a mile long. But he’s got some bad qualities too, and one of those is popping up now. He’s a snob. He was born and raised in a very wealthy family, and because of that he tends to look down his nose at a lot of things. The good news is that he’s aware he does it, and he really does try hard not to be so obnoxious, but the snob peeks through every once in a while. And just like Max needs to be pushed and ruffled, so does he. It’s a good thing for both of them that I’m not afraid to make them uncomfortable. I hum “Ring of Fire” loud enough to draw attention. It actually makes his smile bigger.

  The restaurant is a study in modern design but has enough hipster touches—exposed brick, raw-wood accents, farm to table–style ingredients—to be thoroughly LA. It’s kind of a foodie paradise, and I’ve been dying to try it forever. I used to make reservations for my boss here all the time, so it’s super exciting to be having dinner here now.

  I head towards the hostess stand to check in, but before I can get very far, Brody pulls me back fast. I look over my shoulder in surprise.

  “Aren’t we going to sit down?”

  He jerks his chin off to the right, towards the restaurant’s small bar.

  “Let’s grab a drink first.”

  Admittedly I ate an entire sleeve of crackers earlier in my nervous agitation about tonight’s date, so I’m not even close to hungry. I nod and follow his lead.

  We walk up to the counter, and I wait as he pulls out a barstool for me.

  “Don’t we need to check in and tell them we’re here?” I ask.

  Before he can answer, the bartender hurries over to us with the eagerness of a springer spaniel.

  “Good evening, Mr. Ashton. What can I get you?”

  Brody’s smile is self-deprecating as he hands me the cocktail menu.

  “They know we’re here.”

  I study a cocktail menu that’s roughly the size of a hotel Bible and try to cover up my embarrassment.

  I forget.

  Because he’s sweet and funny, and because I’ve seen him laid back and pissed off and even terrified, I sometimes forget who he is. I forget that Brody is Brody Ashton and that he comes from a family of some of the most successful restaurateurs in the world. So if he walks into a high-end restaurant like this, in the city he grew up in, of course they know he’s here, and of course we don’t have to check in. He’s a golden boy in LA, bright and shiny as the sun, and they saw him coming from a mile away.

  Once again I am reminded of how out of my league I am. The golden boy looks at me, and my heart freaks out as if to emphasize the point.

  “Do you know what you’d like?”

  I should probably choose one of the fancy-looking drinks on the menu or make like Max and ask the bartender to create something custom for me. But the truth is, I feel nervous and I’d rather have something familiar than something impressive.

  “Jack, rocks,” I tell the bartender.

  The bartender’s tiny hipster mustache twitches almost imperceptibly. His eyes dart to Brody in some kind of confusion.

  “We have a lovely Macallan 17,” the bartender tells me. “I’m sure you’d enjoy that much more.”

  I know from working with event clients that if an alcohol has a number in its name, it costs four times what a regular drink does.

  “Jack is just fine,” I tell both of them.

  The bartender looks like he’s fighting nausea. My date is fighting a smile.

  “Sam”—Brody looks back at the bartender—“do you have the Sinatra Select?”

  Sam’s shoulders visibly lose their tension.

  “An excellent choice, Mr. Ashton,” he tells him. “Will you be having the same?”

  “Please,” Brody says, finally taking a seat at the barstool next to me.

  I watch the barkeep suspiciously.

  “What did you just order me?”

  “I ordered us Jack Daniel’s.”

  I frown at his answer.

  “Yes, but from what year?”

  “Oh look,” Brody calls with far too much enthusiasm. “The drinks are here.”

  I will not be a pain about this, because he did invite me on this date and I’m not going to fight him over the price of everything. But I have a sneaking suspicion this small lowball glass is holding two inches and fifty dollars’ worth of whiskey. I make a mental note to Google it later.

  Brody raises his glass into the space between us.

  “What should we toast to?”

  “Um—you choose,” I reply.

  He considers it for a moment before his blue eyes light up with an idea.

  “To freckles?”

  I roll my eyes and try to fight a smile at the reminder of the time we went surfing and he discovered my freckles.

  “To blue lips?” he tries again.

  This time I can actually feel my blush a moment before he leans over and kisses my forehead.

  “You are so sweet,” he whispers into m
y hair.

  I’m sure I’m doing the whole serial-killer stare that Miko warned me about, but I can’t help it—he’s so sweet. He straightens back up in his chair, and I try to find my composure.

  “OK, how about to pancakes?”

  This time I can’t hold back my laughter at the reminder of the only meal we’ve ever eaten together. I nod and clink my glass against his.

  “To pancakes,” I agree.

  The whiskey flavors are smooth and smoky and much more refined than what I typically drink. I shiver as I feel the liquor work its way down to my toes. I set the drink back on the embossed cocktail napkin it came with.

  “So is this what you do?”

  His eyebrows come together.

  “Excuse me?”

  “On a date.” I grin at him. “Is this what you do when you go on a date?”

  When he continues to look confused, I elaborate.

  “You know—take her to Hatfield’s, drinks in the bar.” I twirl a finger to indicate the space around us. “Dinner is prix fixe, share a dessert.”

  Brody gives me a wary smile before answering.

  “Hatfield’s, no,” he says shortly. “I don’t usually bring dates here. But the rest of it, yes—this is what I usually do.”

  He sounds annoyed and upset, and I have no idea what I said to make him react like that. I watch as his jaw tenses like he’s biting down hard on his molars. He reaches for his glass.

  Are we not allowed to talk about other dates? Is that a rule?

  I’m such a spaz! Why do I always let my mouth run away with me?

  I had no idea.

  I fiddle nervously with my cocktail napkin. It’s probably better just to ask.

  “Is that not—should I not have asked that?” My voice is so low, I’m not sure if he hears me.

  Brody puts down his glass and studies me.

  “I suppose it depends on why you asked.”

  Yeesh, I really wet the bed with this one, didn’t I?

  I shrug helplessly.

  “I was trying to make conversation.” I resist the urge to bite my lip nervously. “I was curious if this is what you typically do on a date.”

  His blue eyes scan my face as if looking for some kind of answer.

  “You’re not . . . upset, to talk about women I’ve dated in the past?”

  Upset? Why would I be upset about that? I honestly never even considered it.

  He must see the confusion in my face, because he gives me more information.

  “A lot of women don’t want to hear about other women”—he pauses to swipe a hand through his hair before finishing his sentence quickly—“that a man has dated before her.”

  My eyebrows furrow in confusion.

  “But I didn’t even know you then,” I tell him, still confused.

  Brody shakes his head slowly like he’s looking at some kind of alien life-form.

  He still hasn’t responded when the bartender materializes in front of us again and slides the bill over to him. Brody takes out his wallet and puts it on the counter. He removes a black Amex and slides it inside the leather holder next to the bill without once glancing at the total. I didn’t even know they made black credit cards. I wonder what that’s all about.

  I’ll contemplate that later, when I try to figure out why talking about other dates annoys Brody so much. I reach out to take another drink but get pulled up short by a terrible thought.

  Once again the filter between my brain and my mouth is nowhere in sight.

  “Wait—you’re not dating anyone else now, are you?”

  I’d like to believe it didn’t come out as a terrified hiss, but I try not to lie to anybody, especially myself. I didn’t know we were supposed to clarify these things up front. I just assumed if he was dating me he wouldn’t be talking to anyone else.

  I definitely won’t hyperventilate while this realization comes crashing down around me. I definitely won’t.

  Brody’s face softens and then gains tension as he fights the urge to laugh. Smart man that he is, he finds a way to keep from doing it.

  “No, Landon.” He tugs playfully on the end of my hair. “I’m not dating anyone but you.”

  I immediately relax “Oh, great—me neither,” I reply stupidly. I feel infinitely happier, so I want to make sure he understands. “Then I’ll stick with my answer. No, I didn’t know you when you were dating these other people. So why would it upset me to hear about them? It’s what made you into who you are, right?”

  Happy that that’s settled, I take another sip of my overpriced whiskey.

  “Right.” He’s looking at me like I’m an alien again.

  He and I are very different people, and I figure I’m probably going to see that look on his face a lot. Better to just learn to love it now.

  I’m not sure if it’s this fancy whiskey or the joy that comes with the confirmation that Brody and I are only dating each other, but I’m feeling fabulous all of a sudden, and not even his clear confusion about me can change that. I take another happy sip of my drink.

  “New Year’s,” he mumbles.

  I’ve been staring down into the dregs of my whiskey, so I look at him to make sure I heard him right.

  “What?” I ask.

  He clears his throat.

  “New Year’s was the last time I had a date with someone else.”

  And now I’m staring at him like a deer in headlights. I get the impression he doesn’t normally share these details and something about our conversation made him want to, which accounts for the Bambi look that must be on my face now.

  Brody reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. I’m utterly frozen in place as his fingers run the length of the strand all the way to the bottom. He doesn’t seem to realize I’ve stopped breathing, because he doesn’t let go of that piece of hair; he holds on to it and gently rubs the ends between his finger and his thumb.

  “Do you remember that night?” His voice comes out whisper soft.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve swallowed my tongue, because all I can do is nod.

  “I walked up to the lounge to check on you guys and found you on the dance floor,” he says as he wraps the strand of my hair slowly around his index finger. “You were doing the sprinkler, and you had on that gold dress.” He smiles at the memory. “You were this tiny little firecracker, and you were laughing so hard—and I was done. I called my date and canceled plans to meet her at some party. I pretended I had to work the rest of the night—all so I could watch you dance. You were like a sparkler—so bright and vibrant, and your glow lit up everyone around you. I watched them watch you, and I knew”—he takes a breath—“if I wanted to hold you myself, I couldn’t keep living life like I had been. Because I knew, Landon, someday we were going to find ourselves here, and I wanted to be able to look you in the eye and tell you this story. That as soon as I saw you in that tiny gold dress, there hasn’t been anybody else.”

  I don’t blink. I don’t think I even breathe.

  Brody is so earnest and sincere, and it’s the best thing anyone has ever said.

  “Well, isn’t this special,” a hateful voice snaps, intruding into the space between us.

  Brody immediately turns. But I don’t need to. I’d know that voice in my sleep, and more recently it’s been present in my nightmares. I’d know that tone and the ugly way she hisses out any word that starts with an “S” anywhere. But more than that, I don’t need to look because I knew it was only a matter of time before I had to confront her again, and given my luck, it would happen when the man of my dreams is telling me the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

  I blow out a quick breath of disappointment and then turn my face to get a good look at the familiar scowl on hers.

  “Hello, Selah,” I say quietly.

  She doesn’t acknowledge me
, not that I really thought she would. She looks down her nose directly at Brody.

  “Still slumming, B?” she sneers.

  Brody lets go of my hair but reaches for my hand. I hope he can’t feel my heart hammering through my palm. I wish she didn’t have this effect on me; I wish I wasn’t so nervous, but this woman terrorized me for months, and it’s hard not to revert right back to the person I was when I worked for her.

  “What are you doing here, Selah?” Brody asks, managing to sound totally bored.

  The bored thing is one of his best tricks. I can feel the tension in his hand and see that he’s biting down on his molars in agitation again, but if you didn’t know him well, you’d think he was totally indifferent.

  “What am I doing here?” She runs her fingers quickly through the ends of her bob. “I’m celebrating my birthday. Surely you haven’t forgotten, B. We spent this night together last year.”

  He squeezes my hand tighter. “That’s right—me and two hundred other people were at your birthday party last year. But you’ll have to forgive me for forgetting the date; I can’t be expected to remember such inconsequential information.”

  Ooh, point for Brody.

  Selah’s eyes narrow at him.

  “Well,” she sniffs, “I’ve rented out half the restaurant. That’s fifty-two of my guests to watch you and this child who tried to bring down my company work your way through a four-course meal. I’m sure that won’t seem inconsequential at all.”

  Her eyes land on me for exactly as long as it takes to flash a viperous smile. Then she walks back to the hostess stand without a backward glance.

  “Do you think it’s really her birthday?” Brody asks as we watch her go.

  I nod without looking at him. “Yes, unfortunately there is a whole host of random information stored in my brain from my time with her. Her acupuncturist’s cell phone number, the street address to her parents’ vacation home in Vail, and her birthday. It’s definitely today.”

  Brody sighs and then looks at me.

  “We have to go somewhere else.”

  I’m actually surprised he’d let her chase him away. I try to lighten the mood.

  “Didn’t you have a whole plan?” I jab one finger playfully into his stomach.